


Rosemary Malfoy and the Chamber of Secrets

by EdytheCullen



Series: Rosemary Malfoy and The Girl in Green [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the chamber of Secrets
Genre: Cedric Diggory gets a character background, Draco Malfoy and Luna Lovegood are cousins, Draco Malfoy's sister - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Fuck Snape, M/M, Major Character Injury, Marauders, Slow Burn, Slytherin representation, banshee - Freeform, double pov, parsletongue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-06 03:13:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16380326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdytheCullen/pseuds/EdytheCullen
Summary: Rosemary Malfoy has been friends with Harry Potter since their first year and has gotten into a tons of trouble for it. Now it seems trouble seems to find her! Or...maybe she's finding it? Friendships are tested and new ones blossom as a lethal monster has been set free--now what does a pureblooded, slytherin banshee have to do with any of this? And why is Ginny Weasley so afraid of her?Join Rosemary Malfoy and her friends on figuring out what the hell is going on in the second installment of my fan fiction, where I try desperately to figure out an updating schedule and she's trying to make it out of her second year alive.Only my characters belong to me ;)





	1. A Very Bad Day Turned Good

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my lovely readers.   
> I know, it has been a while since I finished the first installment but I wanted to write it all out before posting the first chapter of the second book. I will be uploading every Monday, hopefully, as I have no stared editing the final chapters.   
> More notes at the end. Enjoy!

Not for the first time, an argument had broken out over breakfast at number four, Privet Drive. Mr. Vernon Dursley had been woken in the early hours of the morning by a loud, hooting noise from his nephew Harry’s room.

“Third time this week!” he roared across the table. “If you can’t control that owl, it’ll have to go!”

Harry tried, yet again, to explain.

“She’s bored,” he said. “She’s used to flying around outside. If I could just let her out at night -”

 “Do I look stupid?” snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of fried egg dangling from his bushy mustache. “I know what’ll happen if that owl’s let out.”

He exchanged dark looks with his wife, Petunia.

Harry tried to argue back but his words were drowned by a long, loud belch from the Dursleys’ son, Dudley.

“I want more bacon.”

“There’s more in the frying pan, sweetums,” said Aunt Petunia, turning misty eyes on her massive son. “We must build you up while we’ve got the chance… I don’t like the sound of that school food…”

“Nonsense, Petunia, I never went hungry when I was at Smeltings,” said Uncle Vernon heartily. “Dudley gets enough, don’t you, son?”

Dudley, who was so large his bottom drooped over either side of the kitchen chair, grinned and turned to Harry.

 “Pass the frying pan.”

“You’ve forgotten the magic word,” said Harry irritably.

The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of the family was incredible: Dudley gasped and fell off his chair with a crash that shook the whole kitchen; Mrs. Dursley gave a small scream and clapped her hands to her mouth; Mr. Dursley jumped to his feet, veins throbbing in his temples.

 “I meant ‘please’!” said Harry quickly. “I didn’t mean —”

“WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU,” thundered his uncle, spraying spit over the table, “ABOUT SAYING THE ‘M’ WORD IN OUR HOUSE?”

“But I —”

“HOW DARE YOU THREATEN DUDLEY!” roared Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his fist.

“I just —”

“I WARNED YOU! I WILL NOT TOLERATE MENTION OF YOUR ABNORMALITY UNDER THIS ROOF!”

 Harry stared from his purple-faced uncle to his pale aunt, who was trying to heave Dudley to his feet.

“All right,” said Harry, “all right…”

Uncle Vernon sat back down, breathing like a winded rhinoceros and watching Harry closely out of the corners of his small, sharp eyes.

Ever since Harry had come home for the summer holidays, Uncle Vernon had been treating him like a bomb that might go off at any moment, because Harry Potter wasn’t a normal boy. As a matter of fact, he was as not normal as it is possible to be.

Harry Potter was a wizard — a wizard fresh from his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And if the Dursleys were unhappy to have him back for the holidays, it was nothing to how Harry felt.

He missed Hogwarts so much it was like having a constant stomach-ache. He missed the castle, with its secret passageways and ghosts, his classes (though perhaps not Snape, the Potions master), the mail arriving by owl, eating banquets in the Great Hall, sleeping in his four-poster bed in the tower dormitory, visiting the gamekeeper, Hagrid, in his cabin next to the Forbidden Forest in the grounds, and, especially, Quidditch, the most popular sport in the wizarding world (six tall goal posts, four flying balls, and fourteen players on broomsticks).

All Harry’s spell books, his wand, robes, cauldron, and top-of-the-line Nimbus Two Thousand broomstick had been locked in a cupboard under the stairs by Uncle Vernon the instant Harry had come home the past three weeks. He was trying desperately to wait it out until his birthday, which was fast approaching, until his godmother could come and pick him up.

But a worry settled in his stomach at the amount of time that had passed with no letters from her—she’d walked with Harry to the Dursleys’ car, to speak of terms of how she’d come and pick him up, but Harry was sure they had barely heard her—Uncle Vernon was being intimidated by her military similar uniform and Aunt Petunia was turning pale, staring at her in shock and terror. Duddley happily awaited in the car, seated as far away from his godmother as possible. She’d only told them she’d be picking him up on his twelfth birthday, and he refused to think her promise as a sick joke, but she’d said she would send a letter of warning— _I need to calm down,_ he thought, _she’ll come._

He imagined that she would suddenly pop up on their doorstep the first minute of July 31st, and take him as soon as possible. The Durleys’ would welcome his departure as a heavenly godsend, and so would Harry, should he be honest.

The Dursleys were what wizards called Muggles (not a drop of magical blood in their veins), and as far as they were concerned, having a wizard in the family was a matter of deepest shame. Uncle Vernon had even padlocked Harry’s owl, Hedwig, inside her cage, to stop her from carrying messages to anyone in the wizarding world.

Harry looked nothing like the rest of the family. Uncle Vernon was large and neckless, with an enormous black mustache; Aunt Petunia was horse-faced and bony; Dudley was blond, pink, and porky. Harry, on the other hand, was small and skinny, with brilliant green eyes and jet-black hair that was always untidy. He wore round glasses, and on his forehead was a thin, lightning shaped scar.

It was this scar that made Harry so particularly unusual, even for a wizard. This scar was the only hint of Harry’s very mysterious past, of the reason he had been left on the Dursleys’ doorstep eleven years before.

At the age of one year old, Harry had somehow survived a curse from the greatest Dark sorcerer of all time, Lord Voldemort, whose name most witches and wizards still feared to speak. Harry’s parents had died in Voldemort’s attack, but Harry had escaped with his lightning scar, and somehow—nobody understood why—Voldemort’s powers had been destroyed the instant he had failed to kill Harry.

So Harry had been brought up by his dead mother’s sister and her husband. He had spent ten years with the Dursleys, never understanding why he kept making odd things happen without meaning to, believing the Dursleys’ story that he had got his scar in the car crash that had killed his parents.

And then, exactly a year ago, Hogwarts had written to Harry, and the whole story had come out. Harry had taken up his place at wizard school, where he and his scar were famous… but now the school year was over, and he was back with the Dursleys for the summer, back to being treated like a dog that had rolled in something smelly, for just a few weeks until his birthday. And then…

It was his birthday—today. The day he would be able to leave for the summer—for the summer!—and he would not be back for a year and by then, he would be able to stay even less time. He would ignore The Dursleys, who hadn’t even remembered that today happened to be Harry’s twelfth birthday. Of course, his hopes hadn’t been high; they’d never given him a real present, let alone a cake — but to ignore it completely…

At that moment, Uncle Vernon cleared his throat importantly and said, “Now, as we all know, today is a very important day.”

Harry looked up, hardly daring to believe it.

 “This could well be the day I make the biggest deal of my career,” said Uncle Vernon.

Harry went back to his toast. _Of course,_ he thought bitterly, _Uncle Vernon was talking about the stupid dinner party._ He’d been talking of nothing else for two weeks. Some rich builder and his wife were coming to dinner and Uncle Vernon was hoping to get a huge order from him (Uncle Vernon’s company made drills).

“I think we should run through the schedule one more time,” said Uncle Vernon. “We should all be in position at eight o’clock. Petunia, you will be —?”

“In the lounge,” said Aunt Petunia promptly, “waiting to welcome them graciously to our home.”

“Good, good. And Dudley?”

 “I’ll be waiting to open the door.” Dudley put on a foul, simpering smile. “May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?”

“They’ll love him!” cried Aunt Petunia rapturously.

“Excellent, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon. Then he rounded on Harry. “And _you_?”

“I’ll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I’m not there,” said Harry tonelessly.

“Exactly,” said Uncle Vernon nastily. “I will lead them into the lounge, introduce you, Petunia, and pour them drinks. At eight-fifteen —”

“I’ll announce dinner,” said Aunt Petunia.

 “And, Dudley, you’ll say —”

 “May I take you through to the dining room, Mrs. Mason?” said Dudley, offering his fat arm to an invisible woman.

“My perfect little gentleman!” sniffed Aunt Petunia.

“And _you_?” said Uncle Vernon viciously to Harry.

“I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I’m not there,” said Harry dully.

“Precisely. Now, we should aim to get in a few good compliments at dinner. Petunia, any ideas?”

“Vernon tells me you’re a wonderful golfer, Mr. Mason… Do tell me where you bought your dress, Mrs. Mason…”

“Perfect… Dudley?”

“How about —‘We had to write an essay about our hero at school, Mr. Mason, and I wrote about you.’”

This was too much for both Aunt Petunia and Harry. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and hugged her son, while Harry ducked under the table so they wouldn’t see him laughing.

“And you, boy?”

Harry fought to keep his face straight as he emerged.

 “I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I’m not there,” he said. ‘And waiting for my godmother, who _will_ show up,’

“Too right, you will.” said Uncle Vernon forcefully. “I don’t expect this…godmother of yours to show, it will be useless waiting as no one in the right mind would want you, and damaging, should the Masons see you. The Masons don’t know anything about you and it’s going to stay that way. When dinner’s over, you take Mrs. Mason back to the lounge for coffee, Petunia, and I’ll bring the subject around to drills. With any luck, I’ll have the deal signed and sealed before the news at ten. Be shopping for a vacation home in Majorca this time tomorrow.”

Harry knew better than to oppose him when it came to the strange woman who’d come to speak to them—which was one of the kinder titles they’d bestowed her. None of this would matter this time tomorrow for him. Besides, he didn’t think the Dursleys would like him any better in Majorca than they did on Privet Drive.

“Right — I’m off into town to pick up the dinner jackets for Dudley and me. And you,” he snarled at Harry. “You stay out of your aunt’s way while she’s cleaning.”

Harry left through the back door. It was a brilliant, sunny day. He crossed the lawn, slumped down on the garden bench, and sang under his breath: “Happy birthday to me… happy birthday to me…”

It had been a long four weeks. No letters, no word, not a hint of news from his friends. He gazed miserably into the hedge. He had never felt so lonely. More than anything else at Hogwarts, more even than playing Quidditch, Harry missed his best friends, Ron Weasley, Rose Malfoy and Hermione Granger. They, however, didn’t seem to be missing him at all. None of them had written to him all summer, even though Ron had said he was going to ask Harry to come and stay. He wondered if something had blocked his house—if Andromeda, his godmother, had not sent letters, then there was something wrong with the house he was in, probably. That must explain it…

But there had been countless times where Harry had been on the point of unlocking Hedwig’s cage by magic and sending her to his godmother, Rose, Ron and Hermione with a letter, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Underage wizards weren’t allowed to use magic outside of school. Harry hadn’t told the Dursleys this; he knew it was only their terror that he might turn them all into dung beetles that stopped them from locking him in the cupboard under the stairs with his wand and broomstick. For the first two weeks back, Harry had enjoyed muttering nonsense words under his breath and watching Dudley tearing out of the room as fast as his fat legs would carry him. But the long silence from his friends and godmother had made Harry feel so cut off from the magical world that even taunting Dudley had lost its appeal—and now they’d forgotten his birthday.  

What wouldn’t he give now for a message from Hogwarts? From any witch or wizard? He’d almost be glad of a sight of his archenemy, Draco Malfoy, Rose’s twin (thought they looked nothing alike, except for the hair and pale skin), just to be sure it hadn’t all been a dream…

Not that his whole year at Hogwarts had been fun. At the very end of last term, Harry and Rose had come face-to-face with none other than Lord Voldemort himself. Voldemort might be a ruin of his former self, but he was still terrifying, still cunning, still determined to regain power. They had slipped through Voldemort’s clutches, a second time for Harry, but it had been a narrow escape, and even now, weeks later, Harry kept waking in the night, drenched in cold sweat, wondering where Voldemort was now, remembering his livid face, his wide, mad eyes—

Harry suddenly sat bolt upright on the garden bench. He had been staring absent-mindedly into the hedge—and the hedge was staring back. Two enormous green eyes had appeared among the leaves.

Harry jumped to his feet just as a jeering voice floated across the lawn.

“I know what day it is,” sang Dudley, waddling toward him.

The huge eyes blinked and vanished.

“What?” said Harry, not taking his eyes off the spot where they had been.

“I know what day it is,” Dudley repeated, coming right up to him.

“Well done,” said Harry. “So you’ve finally learned the days of the week.”

“Today’s your birthday,” sneered Dudley. “How come you haven’t got any cards? Haven’t you even got friends at that freak place?”

“Better not let your mum hear you talking about my school,” said Harry coolly.

Dudley hitched up his trousers, which were slipping down his fat bottom.

“Why’re you staring at the hedge?” he said suspiciously.

 “I’m trying to decide what would be the best spell to set it on fire,” said Harry.

Dudley stumbled backward at once, a look of panic on his fat face.

“You c-can’t—Dad told you you’re not to do m-magic—he said he’ll chuck you out of the house—and you haven’t got anywhere else to go—that your godmother was on bath salts—and you haven’t got any friends to take you —”

“Jiggery pokery!” said Harry in a fierce voice. “Hocus pocus — squiggly wiggly —”

“MUUUUUUM!” howled Dudley, tripping over his feet as he dashed back toward the house. “MUUUUM! He’s doing you know what!”

Harry paid dearly for his moment of fun. As neither Dudley nor the hedge was in any way hurt, Aunt Petunia knew he hadn’t really done magic, but he still had to duck as she aimed a heavy blow at his head with the soapy frying pan. Then she gave him work to do, with the promise he wouldn’t eat again until he’d finished.

While Dudley lolled around watching and eating ice cream, Harry cleaned the windows, washed the car, mowed the lawn, trimmed the flowerbeds, pruned and watered the roses, and repainted the garden bench. The sun blazed overhead, burning the back of his neck. Harry knew he shouldn’t have risen to Dudley’s bait, but Dudley had said the very thing Harry had been thinking himself… maybe he didn’t have any friends at Hogwarts…

 _Wish they could see famous Harry Potter now_ , he thought savagely as he spread manure on the flower beds, his back aching, sweat running down his face.

 It was half past seven in the evening when at last, exhausted, he heard Aunt Petunia calling him.

“Get in here! And walk on the newspaper!”

Harry moved gladly into the shade of the gleaming kitchen. On top of the fridge stood tonight’s pudding: a huge mound of whipped cream and sugared violets. A loin of roast pork was sizzling in the oven.

“Eat quickly! The Masons will be here soon!” snapped Aunt Petunia, pointing to two slices of bread and a lump of cheese on the kitchen table. She was already wearing a salmon-pink cocktail dress.

Harry washed his hands and bolted down his pitiful supper. The moment he had finished, Aunt Petunia whisked away his plate. “Upstairs! Hurry!”

As he passed the door to the living room, Harry caught a glimpse of Uncle Vernon and Dudley in bow ties and dinner jackets. He had only just reached the upstairs landing when the doorbell rang and Uncle Vernon’s furious face appeared at the foot of the stairs.

“Remember, boy — one sound —”

 Harry crossed to his bedroom on tiptoe slipped inside, closed the door, and turned to collapse on his bed. The trouble was, there was already someone sitting on it.

It was not Andromeda Tonks, unfortunately. It wasn’t even her husband, or daughter, that he managed to refrain from shouting in shock of— _it_ being the little creature on the bed. It had large, bat-like ears and bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls. Harry knew instantly that this was what had been watching him out of the garden hedge that morning.

As they stared at each other, Harry heard Dudley’s voice from the hall.

“May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?” The creature slipped off the bed and bowed so low that the end of its long, thin nose touched the carpet. Harry noticed that it was wearing what looked like an old pillowcase, with rips for arm and leg-holes.

 “Er — hello,” said Harry nervously.

“Harry Potter!” said the creature in a high-pitched voice Harry was sure would carry down the stairs. “So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir… Such an honor it is…”

“Th-thank you,” said Harry, edging along the wall and sinking into his desk chair, next to Hedwig, who was asleep in her large cage. He wanted to ask, “What are you?” but thought it would sound too rude, so instead he said, “Who are you?”

 “Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf,” said the creature.

“Oh — really?” said Harry. “Er — I don’t want to be rude or anything, but — this isn’t a great time for me to have a house-elf in my bedroom.”

Aunt Petunias high, false laugh sounded from the living room. The elf hung his head.

“Not that I’m not pleased to meet you,” said Harry quickly, “but, er, is there any particular reason you’re here?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said Dobby earnestly. “Dobby has come to tell you, sir… it is difficult, sir… Dobby wonders where to begin…”

“Sit down,” said Harry politely, pointing at the bed.

To his horror, the elf burst into tears — very noisy tears.

“S-sit down!” he wailed. “Never… never ever…”

Harry thought he heard the voices downstairs falter.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything —”

“Offend Dobby!” choked the elf. “Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wizard — like an equal —”

Harry, trying to say “Shh!” and look comforting at the same time, ushered Dobby back onto the bed where he sat hiccoughing, looking like a large and very ugly doll. At last he managed to control himself, and sat with his great eyes fixed on Harry in an expression of watery adoration.

“You can’t have met many decent wizards,” said Harry, trying to cheer him up.

Dobby shook his head. Then, without warning, he leapt up and started banging his head furiously on the window, shouting, “Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!”

“Don’t—what are you doing?” Harry hissed, springing up and pulling Dobby back onto the bed — Hedwig had woken up with a particularly loud screech and was beating her wings wildly against the bars of her cage.

“Dobby had to punish himself, sir,” said the elf, who had gone slightly cross-eyed. “Dobby almost spoke ill of his family, sir…”

“Your family?”

“The wizard family Dobby serves, sir… Dobby is a house-elf — bound to serve one house and one family forever…”

“Do they know you’re here?” asked Harry curiously.

Dobby shuddered.

“Oh, no, sir, no… Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you, sir. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir —”

“But won’t they notice if you shut your ears in the oven door?”

“Dobby doubts it, sir. Dobby is always having to punish himself for something, sir. They lets Dobby get on with it, sir. Sometimes they reminds me to do extra punishments…”

“But why don’t you leave? Escape?”

“A house-elf must be set free, sir. And the family will never set Dobby free… Dobby will serve the family until he dies, sir…”

Harry stared.

“And I thought I had it bad staying here for four weeks,” he said. “This makes the Dursleys sound almost human. Can’t anyone help you? Can’t I?”

Almost at once, Harry wished he hadn’t spoken. Dobby dissolved again into wails of gratitude.

“Please,” Harry whispered frantically, “please be quiet. If the Dursleys hear anything, if they know you’re here—”

 “Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby… Dobby has heard of your greatness, sir, but of your goodness, Dobby never knew…”

Harry, who was feeling distinctly hot in the face, said, “Whatever you’ve heard about my greatness is a load of rubbish. I’m not even top of my year at Hogwarts; that’s Rose and Hermione, she —”

 But he stopped quickly, because thinking about Hermione and Rose was painful. But at the mention fo his friends, Dobby seemed to falter.

“Harry Potter is humble and modest,” said Dobby reverently, his orb-like eyes aglow. “Harry Potter speaks not of his triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—”

“Voldemort?” said Harry.

Dobby clapped his hands over his bat ears and moaned, “Ah, speak not the name, sir! Speak not the name!”

 “Sorry,” said Harry quickly. “I know lots of people don’t like it. My friend Ron—”

 He stopped again. Thinking about Ron was painful, too.

Dobby leaned toward Harry, his eyes wide as headlights.

“Dobby heard tell,” he said hoarsely, “that Harry Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time just weeks ago… that Harry Potter escaped yet again.”

Harry nodded and Dobby’s eyes suddenly shone with tears.

“Ah, sir,” he gasped, dabbing his face with a corner of the grubby pillowcase he was wearing. “Harry Potter is valiant and bold! He has braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later… _Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts.”_

There was a silence broken only by the chink of knives and forks from downstairs and the distant rumble of Uncle Vernon’s voice.

 “W-what?” Harry stammered. “I can’t not go back to Hogwarts! I don’t belong here! My godmother is a witch—I’m a wizard—I belong at Hogwarts, how can I not go back?”

“No, no, no,” squeaked Dobby, shaking his head so hard his ears flapped. “Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger.”

 “Why?” said Harry in surprise.

“There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year,” whispered Dobby, suddenly trembling all over. “Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!”

“What terrible things?” said Harry at once. “Who’s plotting them?”

Dobby made a funny choking noise and then banged his head frantically against the wall. “All right!” cried Harry, grabbing the elf’s arm to stop him. “You can’t tell me. I understand. But why are you warning me?” A sudden, unpleasant thought struck him. “Hang on — this hasn’t got anything to do with Vol — sorry — with You-Know-Who, has it? You could just shake or nod,” he added hastily as Dobby’s head tilted worryingly close to the wall again.

Slowly, Dobby shook his head. “Not — not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, sir —”

But Dobby’s eyes were wide and he seemed to be trying to give Harry a hint. Harry, however, was completely lost.

“He hasn’t got a brother, has he?”

Dobby shook his head, his eyes wider than ever.

“Well then, I can’t think who else would have a chance of making horrible things happen at Hogwarts,” said Harry. “I mean, there’s Dumbledore, for one thing—you know who Dumbledore is, don’t you?”

Dobby bowed his head. “Albus Dumbledore is the greatest headmaster Hogwarts has ever had. Dobby knows it, sir. Dobby has heard Dumbledore’s powers rival those of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his strength. But, sir”—Dobby’s voice dropped to an urgent whisper—“there are powers Dumbledore doesn’t… powers no decent wizard…”

 And before Harry could stop him, Dobby bounded off the bed, seized Harry’s desk lamp, and started beating himself around the head with ear-splitting yelps.

A sudden silence fell downstairs. Two seconds later Harry, heart thudding madly, heard Uncle Vernon coming into the hall, calling, “Dudley must have left his television on again, the little tyke!”

“Quick! In the closet!” hissed Harry, stuffing Dobby in, shutting the door, and flinging himself onto the bed just as the door handle turned.

“What — the —devil — are — you — doing?” said Uncle Vernon through gritted teeth, his face horribly close to Harry’s. “You’ve just ruined the punch line of my Japanese golfer joke… One more sound and you’ll wish you’d never been born, boy!”

 He stomped flat-footed from the room.

Shaking, Harry let Dobby out of the closet.

“See what it’s like here?” he said. “See why I’ve got to go back to Hogwarts? I’ve got a godmother—and she’s a _witch_. I have wizard and witch friends—I’m a _wizard_ ,” It was the very most dangerous thing to say in the house but he had to say something.

“Godmother and friends who don’t even write to Harry Potter?” said Dobby slyly.

“I expect there’s just something with the house—wait a minute,” said Harry, frowning. “How do you know no one has been writing to me?”

Dobby shuffled his feet. “Harry Potter mustn’t be angry with Dobby. Dobby did it for the best —”

_“Have you been stopping my letters?”_

“Dobby has them here, sir,” said the elf. Stepping nimbly out of Harry’s reach, he pulled a thick wad of envelopes from the inside of the pillowcase he was wearing. Harry could make out Hermione’s neat writing, Ron’s untidy scrawl, Rose’s perfect cursive, and another that looked a lot like Rose’s that must have been Andromeda’s and even a scribble that looked as though it was from the Hogwarts gamekeeper, Hagrid.

Dobby blinked anxiously up at Harry.

“Harry Potter mustn’t be angry… Dobby hoped… if Harry Potter thought his friends had forgotten him… Harry Potter might not want to go back to school, sir…”

Harry wasn’t listening. He made a grab for the letters, but Dobby jumped out of reach.

“Harry Potter will have them, sir, if he gives Dobby his word that he will not return to Hogwarts. Ah, sir, this is a danger you must not face! Say you won’t go back, sir!”

“No,” said Harry angrily. “Give me my friends’ letters!”

“Then Harry Potter leaves Dobby no choice,” said the elf sadly.

Before Harry could move, Dobby had darted to the bedroom door, pulled it open, and sprinted down the stairs.

Mouth dry, stomach lurching, Harry sprang after him, trying not to make a sound. He jumped the last six steps, landing catlike on the hall carpet, looking around for Dobby. From the dining room he heard Uncle Vernon saying, “… tell Petunia that very funny story about those American plumbers, Mr. Mason. She’s been dying to hear…”

Harry ran up the hall into the kitchen and felt his stomach disappear.

Aunt Petunia’s masterpiece of a pudding, the mountain of cream and sugared violets, was floating up near the ceiling. On top of a cupboard in the corner crouched Dobby.

“No,” croaked Harry. “Please… they’ll kill me…”

“Harry Potter must say he’s not going back to school —”

“Dobby… please…”

“Say it, sir —”

“I can’t —”

Dobby gave him a tragic look.

“Then Dobby must do it, sir, for Harry Potter’s own good.”

The pudding fell to the floor with a heart-stopping crash. Cream splattered the windows and walls as the dish shattered. With a crack like a whip, Dobby vanished.

There were screams from the dining room and Uncle Vernon burst into the kitchen to find Harry, rigid with shock, covered from head to foot in Aunt Petunia’s pudding.

At first, it looked as though Uncle Vernon would manage to gloss the whole thing over. (“Just our nephew —very disturbed — meeting strangers upsets him, so we kept him upstairs…”) He shooed the shocked Masons back into the dining room, promised Harry he would flay him to within an inch of his life when the Masons had left, and handed him a mop. Aunt Petunia dug some ice cream out of the freezer and Harry, still shaking, started scrubbing the kitchen clean.

Uncle Vernon might still have been able to make his deal — if it hadn’t been for the owl.

Aunt Petunia was just passing around a box of after-dinner mints when a huge barn owl swooped through the dining room window, dropped a letter on Mrs. Mason’s head, and swooped out again. Mrs. Mason screamed like a banshee—he’d thought it was Rose for a moment, how shrill the voice was, but he’d never heard Rose scream—and ran from the house shouting about lunatics. Mr. Mason stayed just long enough to tell the Dursleys that his wife was mortally afraid of birds of all shapes and sizes, and to ask whether this was their idea of a joke.

Harry stood in the kitchen, clutching the mop for support, as Uncle Vernon advanced on him, a demonic glint in his tiny eyes.

“Read it!” he hissed evilly, brandishing the letter the owl had delivered. “Go on — read it!”

Harry took it. It did not contain birthday greetings.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was used at your place of residence this evening at twelve minutes past nine._

_As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to perform spells outside school, and further spellwork on your part may lead to expulsion from said school. (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C)._

_We would also ask you to remember that any magical activity that risks notice by members of the non magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense under section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy._

_Enjoy your holidays!_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Mafalda Hopkirk_

_IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE_

_Ministry of Magic_

Harry looked up from the letter and gulped.

“You didn’t tell us you weren’t allowed to use magic outside school,” said Uncle Vernon, a mad gleam dancing in his eyes. “Forgot to mention it… Slipped your mind, I daresay…”

He was bearing down on Harry like a great bulldog, all his teeth bared. “Well, I’ve got news for you, boy… I’m locking you up… You’re never going back to that school… never… and if you try and magic yourself out — they’ll expel you!”

And laughing like a maniac, he disappeared from the room, out the door, leaving a terrified Harry in the kitchen, where he did not realize someone had slipped through the open door that Uncle Vernon had left in his march. “Harry?”

He thought he was hallucinating the voice but when there was a horror filled shriek and a bang, he didn’t think so. Unable to move, he waited, frozen on the spot, for any sign that what he thought was happening was actually happening.  And then, she ducked into the kitchen, taking in the mess and then Harry, who made up half the mess before smiling brightly, “I’m late. I know—but, happy birthday!” She stepped over what she could and ruffled his hair. “What’s happened here?”

Before Harry could say anything, she turned suddenly, “Were you expecting visitors?”

“Visitors?” He turned to look through the kitchen window to see headlights, well above the ground almost as if it were—flying? Was that right? No that couldn’t be right—no, no yeah it was right, that was a flying car. “Holy—”

“Bars!” Uncle Vernon’s voice boomed into the kitchen from the front room, storming up the stairs, making the entire house shake and tremble. “On your windows! Iron door! You’re not leaving your room, or this house in a long time! You can try to sneak out now!”

“And that’s all I need to hear,” She sighed, tucking her hair behind her ears and turning to the door, “Be a dear, and _don’t leave this room_?” She didn’t wait for an answer before slipping out the back door, to greet Harry’s visitors. Harry didn’t know what to do, so he decided to follow her out.

The sight before him sent chills up his spine, but only in surprise, “Ron.” breathed Harry, creeping to the window and pushing it up so they could talk through the bars. “Ron, how did you —? What the —?”

Harry’s mouth fell open as the full impact of what he was seeing hit him. Ron was standing by his two elder twin brothers, who were both sheepish as he was. Ron smiled but sheepishly. Behind him was a turquoise car, parked in what seemed to be mid-air.

Grinning at Harry next to Ron were Fred and George, Ron’s elder twin brothers. “All right, Harry?” asked George.

“So much for staying inside the room,” His godmother muttered. “What’s this about no letters?”

“Um—a random house elf took them. It’s a long story—why? How?” He gestured to Ron and his brothers and the car with wide eyes and shock.

“Is that why haven’t you been answering my letters? By the way, what the bloody hell happened to you? And I’ve asked you to stay about twelve times, and then Dad came home and said you’d got an official warning for using magic in front of Muggles—”

“It wasn’t me — and how did he know?”

“He works for the Ministry,” said Ron. “You know we’re not supposed to do spells outside school —”

“You should talk,” said Harry, staring at the floating car behind them.

“Oh, this doesn’t count,” said Ron. “We’re only borrowing this. It’s Dad’s, we didn’t enchant it. But doing magic in front of those Muggles you live with —”

“As is driving while underage in a muggle neighborhood,” Andromeda crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow at all the boys. It was quite funny how intimidated the three seemed while Andromeda was so small—not height wise, though she was probably an inch or two taller than Rose, but her frame was small and theirs weren’t and seeing them sheepish because of her was funny until she turned her stare to Harry, “Will you pack your trunk?”

Harry wanted to immediately do so, but he remembered the fact that his Uncle had locked all his things in the cupboard under the stairs, “My uncle locked my school trunk in the closet though,”

She turned once more, and she looked like her expression had frozen, “I’m sorry, _what_?”

“They don’t really like…magic. Like at all, so….” Harry nodded, not knowing how to properly explain the Dursley’s expulsion towards magic but it seemed to register properly with Andromeda, who nodded and told the Wealsey brothers not to go anywhere, “Come along Harry,” And then she made for the house, Harry on her heels.

Aunt Petunia was still in the living room but Dudley had come into the kitchen and had seemed to pick up pieces of the mess on the floor. Harry thought for a moment, Dudley regarded him as a snack, being as he was still covered head to toe in the desert. But the sight of Andromeda must have scared him stiff, because he started screaming for his mum, who came in just as Andromeda walked past her into the hall. Harry, not knowing what to do, nodded awkwardly at the floor, “Witch!” Aunt Petunia screeched, and it was so surprising to hear his aunt use proper termology for a witch that he stared at her in shock.

“Have you got a suitcase? Any bag of a sort?” She asked, coming back into the room, pushing what seemed to be a bobby pin back into her hair. What had Rose said? _Bet they don’t teach you that in Gryffindor,_

“Er, I’ll find one,” He said, moving past him but Uncle Vernon had made the entire house tremble once more coming down the stairs and Andromeda was quick to assert herself—she must have seen the madness in uncle Vernon’s eyes, or perhaps how his big fists contracted, as if in threat. When it registered with him that Andromeda was standing in front of him, he started turning purple. Andromeda, however, seemed to have a schedule tied to the time, because she wasted no time in pulling Harry up the stairs and having him point out his room. “Pack what you need, and quickly. I’d rather not have you in this house longer than you need to be.” She said, casting what sounded like an enlargement spell on his sole bag. He started tossing things in, ignoring her disapproving look at his packing skills, and she took to noticing another detail that bothered her, “Whose clothes are you wearing?”

Harry started zipping up his bag, “Mine.”

“Yours? Harry, they barely fit you—do they feed you properly? Or at all?” She asked, shouldering the bag and leading him out. He glanced back; there was no indication that a boy had ever lived there, not a sign of magical presence. He never even got to put up the frames Rose had gotten him—he hadn’t seen her in so long, it probably would have stung should he not have been excited to be leaving— _it was really happening!_

“Only after chores, but usually no,” He said coming down the stairs after her but nearly knocked right into her when he said this.

“They starve you? You starve him?” She had turned to Uncle Vernon, who was standing in front of Aunt Petunia and Dudley, with an old shotgun pointing at Andromeda. She didn’t seemed unnerved by this. “You starve him, put bars on his windows and give him clothes that slip of his malnourished body and you’re pointing a gun at _me_? Petunia, I met you once and I hoped you would do better with her son than you did with her,” And then Andromeda brandished her wand, making them cower but Petunia was silent.

 She sent the trunk out and turned to Harry, seeming to only realize that he’d been still covered in pudding. “Here,” and with a flick of her wand, he was clean. Strangely enough, the spell had his clothes fit him tighter, better now. He looked down in surprised—he’d never had something fit before.

She placed her hand on his shoulder steadily, though she was angry, as if not wanting the Dursleys’ a second of a chance to lay a hand on him, and led him out in front of her.

“You boys fancy helping with the trunk?” She told Fred and George, who nodded immediately, sneaking passed her to easily lift the trunk, quite catlike. They heaved it into the back of the car that Ron opened and shut it closed. “Lovely, thank you. Now, keys?”

She held her hand out and they tossed them to her without hesitation, “I like you lot too much to make a big trouble out of this, as it is not my job nor my responsibility, but you have had very good intentions so it would have been cruel to even suggest such legal action even if I didn’t. Besides, I’m not on duty.” The three Wealsey brothers smiled, almost in relief, and were to say something, but Andromeda finished, “But it is my responsibility, as a mother of a daughter whose friends with your elder brothers, to let your mother and father know. It’s better than all the paperwork of the other option.”

Sullen and all, the boys nodded. “Oh, Harry, you have an owl. How irresponsible of me!” She turned and raised her fingers to her mouth, and started whispering just when Harry thought she was going to bite her nails. There was a cracking and then something fell from Harry’s window—he could only guess it was the bars Uncle Vernon had manage to fit on messily. Next was the sound of a rattling cage and then—Hedwig flew out!

“Perfect. You’ll have to hold him, I’d rather not let any of you kids into that house for any cage and it doesn’t seem like a witch is too welcome,” So she let Hedwig hop onto her finger, and turned to smile at Harry, “Now, Harry, it’s still your birthday.” Andromeda turned and she seemed to be in a far better mood, “Ice cream?”

“Umm…sure?”

“Eldest in the front, I’m driving,” Andromeda told the twins and Fred grinned at George, who grumbled as he boosted him up into the car and Andromeda walked around to the driver’s side.

She needed no help, helping herself up and then helping Fred tug Ron up with the help of George and then George up with another tug. As Harry was taking a step back for boost to run up and jump, Uncle Vernon hammered on the back door and it crashed open.

For a split second, Uncle Vernon stood framed in the doorway and Harry stared at him as light poured into the backyard before remembering himself and running, just as Uncle Vernon let out a bellow like an angry bull and dived at Harry, grabbing him by the ankle.

Ron, Fred, and George seized Harry’s arms and pulled as hard as they could and Andromeda revved the engine, keeping them balanced as to not tip and have all of them tumble out.

“Petunia!” roared Uncle Vernon. “He’s getting away! HE’S GETTING AWAY!”

But the Weasleys gave a gigantic tug and Harry’s leg slid out of Uncle Vernon’s grasp — Harry was in the car — he’d slammed the door shut —

There was a chorus of, “Go, go, go, go, go, go!” but the car had already shot toward the moon and then—Harry couldn’t believe it—he was free! He rolled down the window, the night air whipping his hair, and looked back at the shrinking rooftops of Privet Drive.

Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were all hanging, dumbstruck, out of Harry’s window. “See you next summer!” Harry yelled and his owl hooted happily from its place in the front.


	2. Ice Cream, You Scream, We all Scream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll find that Draco is very much OOC when around his little sister. Again, very close to canon, as we are only just starting off the story, but I promise it will not always be like this. Enjoy!

“I’m gonna let Hedwig fly behind us,” Harry told Andromeda a few minutes later. “She hasn’t had a chance to stretch her wings for ages.”

About a moment later, Hedwig soared joyfully out of the window to glide alongside them like a ghost.

“So—what’s the story, Harry?” said Ron impatiently. “What’s been happening?”

Harry told them all about Dobby, the warning he’d given Harry and the fiasco of the violet pudding. There was a long, shocked silence when he had finished.

“Very fishy,” said Fred finally.

“Definitely dodgy” agreed George. “So he wouldn’t even tell you who’s supposed to be plotting all this stuff?”  

“I don’t think he could,” said Harry. “I told you, every time he got close to letting something slip, he started banging his head against the wall.”

“He was most likely bound by oath—it must be something very dangerous, should he have risked going to you continuously, to take your letters, and warning you.” Andromeda said, thoughtful for a moment. “Unless, perhaps…” She pursed her lips. Fred and George shared a look.

 “What, you think he was lying to me?” said Harry.

“Well,” said Fred, “put it this way—house-elves have got powerful magic of their own, but they can’t usually use it without their master’s permission. I reckon old Dobby was sent to stop you coming back to Hogwarts. Someone’s idea of a joke. Can you think of anyone at school with a grudge against you?”

“Yes,” said Harry and Ron together, instantly.

“Draco Malfoy,” Harry explained. “He hates me.”

“Draco Malfoy?” said George, turning to him. “Not Lucius Malfoy’s son? As in Rose’s twin brother?” He asked incredulously, just as unaccepting of Draco being Rose’s twin. “ _Really_?”

“Must be, it’s not a very common name, is it?” said Harry.

“I’ve heard Dad talking about him,” said George. “He was a big supporter of You-Know-Who.”

“And when You-Know-Who disappeared,” said Fred, craning around to look at Harry, “Lucius Malfoy came back saying he’d never meant any of it. Load of dung—Dad reckons he was right in You- Know-Who’s inner circle.”

Harry had heard these rumors about Rose’s family before, and they didn’t surprise him at all, though Rose had a fair share of history of shutting them all down. But then again, the Malfoys made Dudley Dursley look like a kind, thoughtful, and sensitive boy…

“I don’t know whether the Malfoys own a house-elf…” said Harry.

“They probably do—should I know anything about Narcissa Malfoy…It sounded like that poor house-elf was very scared of his family, which would make sense about Lucius and Narcissa…she treated our family’s house-elf as if he were a slave,” She scolded but everyone looked at her. She caught Fred’s eye, “Well, now, you don’t recognize my name? I was born Andromeda _Black_ , of the most _Noble and Ancient House of Black_ ,” She rolled her eyes at the heavier, older accent she emphasized the title with. “Most unfortunate house, too, though they weren’t supporters, they would have fit right in.”

“Not knowing what to say, everyone remained quiet. “But it does sound like either a vicious prank sent to you by my nephew—yes, Narcissa is my sister,” She said, once more catching Fred’s look of shock, “Which makes Rose and Draco my niece and nephew, and no that does not mean Harry and Rose are godcousins. But yes, Draco could have sent it. I don’t know what Lucius or Narcissa would want with sending such a strange message to a twelve year old. They would make it much more dramatic—probably threaten you in person, alone, you being wandless, in an alley, probably…And I know for a fact it could not be Rose because she misses you a great deal too much to tell you not to come to school.”

Harry was looking out the window as she said this and was glad no one could see his burning cheeks but nodded.

Ron, however, had a much different reaction. “She misses us? Pfffffttttt,” He snorted but Harry saw George look over to Fred, who didn’t say anything.

“Well, whoever owns him, we know will be an old wizarding family, and they’ll be rich,” said Fred finally.  

“Yeah, Mum’s always wishing we had a house-elf to do the ironing,” said George. “But all we’ve got is a lousy old ghoul in the attic and gnomes all over the garden. House-elves come with big old manors and castles and places like that; you wouldn’t catch one in our house…”

Harry was silent. Judging by the fact that Draco Malfoy usually had the best of everything, his family was rolling in wizard gold; he could just see Malfoy strutting around a large manor house. Sending the family servant to stop Harry from going back to Hogwarts also sounded exactly like the sort of thing Malfoy would do. Had Harry been stupid to take Dobby seriously? He looked over to Andromeda; she seemed worried, biting the inside of her cheek like Rose did.

“Alright,” She put on a smile and turned to them as she finished parking on a muggle street, “Ice cream?”

 

“Draco, I cannot make ice cream!” Rose threw a spoon at him, missing as he ducked. “That’s a muggle desert! And besides, I don’t know the ingredients, and I highly doubt we have any of them.” She crossed her arms.

The Malfoy children spent summers with each other and whoever their parents allowed them to see, with lessons to entertain them, and sneaking out to play Quidditch in the middle of the night in the back clearing, where no one could see them. It was ballet classes, cello and piano practices for Rose and etiquette lessons too, though Rose’s back was always straight and her hair was always up and Draco’s chin was always up and he always offered Rose his arm, to display the perfect angel children picture to anyone who wanted to look.

But truthfully, no matter now nicely the Malfoy twins got along, they always disagreed on something they agreed on. They agreed on this: it was hot and boring on this of most dreadful mornings, where their parents were gone for the weekend and they were condemned indoors the entire weekend. Ice cream, at this moment, would be a life-saver. They disagreed on this: Ice cream could not be brewed like a potion.

“We don’t know that!” He picked the spoon back up and tossed it into her empty cauldron. “Are you a witch or not?”

“I’m a witch, Draco, but that still doesn’t change the fact that I cannot make ice cream in a cauldron!” She exclaimed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “We could always just—”

“No,” He cut her off immediately. “We are not leaving the house. I’m in charge, because I am older—” Rose chose to zone out at this—Draco had been given the privilege of using his new title officially as the older twin, but that didn’t really matter because he’d always bossed her around.

“And because I’m irresponsible and almost got myself killed last year because Voldemort came back, yada yada yada, I know,” She cut him off at some point of the endless droning on, waving her hand while rolling her eyes, “I’ve heard it, Draco,”

He was looking at her in mild shock, “Stop saying his name!”

She smirked, “Scared of a name, are we?” And then she threw the spoon once more at him, but it hit him square in between his eyebrows and she quickly stole out of the room before the spoon could clatter to the floor and before he could run after her.

It was much too hot to argue, so they ended up lounging around, eating whatever good snacks they could find. Draco was going through a vegetarian phase, and made Rose commit to it as well, reasoning that if her pet snake could be a vegetarian, than so could they. Speaking of Freddie, he was wrapping himself around her hand when Draco called her from the other room, “Have you wondered at all what Father has been sneaking around for?”

“What do you mean?” Rose called back, not really paying attention as she fed Freddie a little cut up strawberry, snickering at him.

“Like, he’s been either out a lot, or he’s locked in the office.” He said, shuffling into the room. She jumped up—if Draco wasn’t strutting, something was wrong. “I’m not sure why but I have a terrible feeling about it all.”

“What?” She twisted her body to get up. “You think that…okay, if you’re thinking that Father is—is committing adultery—”

“What!? No!” Draco cut her off in a mild tone of disbelief. “Of course not!”

It was common knowledge between the twins that their father treasured every laugh he could manage out of their mother. As a child, she adored every laugh and adored him more and more because he was the only one who could make her mother laugh like that. The mere thought of him—no, it was no possibility that could be considerable. “Well then…what?”

“I don’t know but Dobby is gone a lot more, have you noticed? I think maybe Father is sending him somewhere.” He said, nodding to himself. Rose cocked a brow.

“Sending him…to get something, you mean? Or to…what, spy?” She rolled her eyes. “If that’s the case, then it’s probably mother who’s sending him. You know she listens to gossip like oxygen to her lungs.”

“I don’t know…” He mumbled, deep in thought.

Rose thought for a moment too, before saying, “He brought in a book. Wait, hold on, Dobby!” Rose shouted, walking out of parlor and through the corridor of the large Manor. “Dobby?”

It didn’t seem like he was around, and since she was not old enough to be a—she hated the word that was appropriate for it but—co-owner (ugh!), he could not be summoned to her calling. This meant—“ I guess we’re on our own on this one,” She muttered and Draco asked, “On this one?”

“Come on,” She demanded, marching around the corner. They had four flights of stairs to climb but they ran all the way up, sweating by the time they reached the fourth floor and Draco came panting behind her. “You have longer legs then me, Draco, stop being dramatic.”

“I’m not wearing a sundress, Rosemary. I’m wearing long sleeves!” He panted and she rolled her eyes and kept walking. She did love sundresses. “Why is this so suddenly important to you?”

“It’s—not.” She faltered, staring over her shoulder, because something…something just happened? “I’m just…curious,” She had started to drift towards the office door, turning it to find it, “Locked. Hold on,” She bent down, sliding her bobby pin out of her hair, allowing hair to float down from her complicated braid bun. Her mother was right—her hair was completely straight her entire life but it had started to wave ever so slightly, amounting with volume probably. Too bad she wasn’t even allowed to show it off, with the stupid rule of having to keep her hair up at all times. The door unlocked and she twisted it immediately, entering, well, nearly falling in.

Her father’s office was probably the most comfortable room in the entire manor. It was large, with a roaring fire and one, mahogany desk in front of it. Books dominated the walls, other than portraits of greater wizards and one of Grandfather Malfoy, an ancient man that neither Rose nor Draco remember. Only one photograph on his desk was a simple portrait, unmoving and still, of the Malfoys. Rose and her mother are sat in front of Draco and her father. Rose had a pleasant face in this, the closest they were allowed to smile in any pictures. She barely noticed it, looking around the desk and unlocked the drawers with the same bobby pin.

“What sort of book was this, remind me?” Draco muttered, examining the bookshelves.

Rose did not reply, because she could not find her voice or her lips, because she was all eyes and she couldn’t keep herself from digging through the files her father had until she came upon a box. It wasn’t too big, but big enough to house a book. Quickly, without missing a beat, with shaking hands, she shoved the bobby pin inside the wooden trinket box and turned the lock.

“…Rose!” Someone screamed and she looked up, startled. Draco was staring at her, with wide eyes. There was a book in his hands and, suddenly, she realized she was aching all over. Looking down, she saw books around her.

“Did you throw books at me?” She sneered, rubbing on her arms. It seemed one had hit her in the head, because she suddenly felt a swift dizziness. “What the hell Draco?”

“You wouldn’t answer me! It was like you were—possessed!” He defended, dropping the book. “What did you find?”

“I don’t know, you threw a book at my head!” She yelled, rubbing the back of her head, but turned her eyes back down to the box and slowly lifted the lid.

It was old and battered, but Rose, a writer, recognized it as a notebook. Frowning, she slid her fingers under its edges and picked it up and just as quickly, she was immersed with dark images, passing through her mind too quickly for her to understand what was happening, but the terrible feelings filling her were all too familiar. The horrible hollowness in her chest opened and tore throughout her entire body and she felt her lungs being filled with the feeling, her heart pulsing that feeling through her veins and her entire body flooded with it. And she was only able to drop the diary and fall back.

“….Rose?” Once more, a book landed on her chest and she coughed.

“It’s a journal. Nothing more. We should get out now.” She said and could hear her voice absolutely void of any emotion. She closed the lid once more over the journal and locked it shut. “Seriously, Draco, what?” She asked when he continued to just stare at her.

“Your hair.” He gestured to his own hair, staring at hers. She reached up and touched her hair, for a moment thinking her hair had fallen off. “It’s—” He grimaced, blinking. “Well, it’s—black!”

“It’s—” She frowned, not believing this, and turned to walk out of the office and to in front of a mirror in the corridor. Her hair, while fading, was whitening, but she saw the sharp black in her hair and it took a moment not to scream, reaching her hands up to grab her hair. And then she actually yelped, seeing her hand was also fading back to its usual pale white. “I’m fine!” Rose wondered why she kept saying that when she was the opposite of fine. Sobs racked their way up her throat, and she covered her mouth tightly with her hand. It was a few moments until she could calm herself down. A moment afterwards, Draco came out of the study, using the bobby pin to lock it once more.

He looked at her for a moment and then nodded, “Let’s fetch some ice cream, Mer.”

 

“I’m glad we came to get you, anyway,” said Ron when they’d gotten back into the car after ice cream. Andromeda was adamant on keep them in her sight at all minutes of their trip and made sure of it. She didn’t have the Weasley’s parent permission to make a little Muggle voyage and made sure she didn’t let them out of her sight. “I was getting really worried when you didn’t answer any of my letters. I thought it was Errol’s fault at first —”

“Who’s Errol?”

“Our owl. He’s ancient. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d collapsed on a delivery. So then I tried to borrow Hermes —”

“Who?”

“The owl Mum and Dad bought Percy when he was made prefect,” said Fred from the front. He’d been assigned Andromeda’s guide, more out of concern that she wouldn’t find it than her actual need for one. Harry noticed how strangely focused she was, even in the dark. Almost like she had night vision.

“But Percy wouldn’t lend him to me,” said Ron. “Said he needed him.”

“Percy’s been acting very oddly this summer,” said George, frowning. “And he has been sending a lot of letters and spending a load of time shut up in his room… I mean, there’s only so many times you can polish a prefect badge…,” Fred interviened,

“You’re driving too far west, Mrs. Tonks,” pointing at a compass on the dashboard. Fred twiddled the steering wheel. She hummed.

“Remind me, what department is Arthur in?” She asked no one in particular.

“He works in the most boring department,” Ron said. “The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.”

“Ah,” She nodded but Harry was confused. “That would explain the car.”

“The what?”

“It mostly focuses on bewitching things that are Muggle-made, you know, in case they end up back in a Muggle shop or house. I remember, just last year, some old witch died and her tea set was sold to an antiques shop. This Muggle woman bought it, took it home, and tried to serve her friends tea in it. It was a nightmare—the department was never the same.”

“What happened?”

“The teapot went berserk and squirted boiling tea all over the place and one man ended up in the hospital with the sugar tongs clamped to his nose. Dad was going frantic — it’s only him and an old warlock called Perkins in the office — and they had to do Memory Charms and all sorts of stuff to cover it up—” George answered.

“But your dad — this car —”

Fred laughed. “Yeah, Dad’s crazy about everything to do with Muggles; our shed’s full of Muggle stuff. He takes it apart, puts spells on it, and puts it back together again. If he raided our house he’d have to put himself under arrest. It drives Mum mad.” And then his eyes widened, looking at Andromeda, “I probably should not have said that.”

She caught his eye and seemed to realize what he was saying, “Oh don’t worry!” She laughed. “I’m not on duty until later this morning…which would, agh, mean—I’d have to talk to your mother and father about having Harry stay the day, should you lot not mind? Harry?” She looked at him through the mirror.

In a chorus of different versions of “Yes, Harry can stay! Mum would love him over!” answering Harry’s, “If it’s alright with your mum.”

“Brilliant.” She turned her eyes back to the sky. “Do you parents know where you’ve been the night?”

This caused another round of silence, before Ron answered,

“Er, no,” said Ron, “he had to work tonight. We were hoping we’ll be able to get it back in the garage without Mum noticing we flew it.”

“Mhmm…” She nodded, “Well that is concerning.” Morning sun caught her hair as the sky started lightening. “Perfect timing, too. We’re a little way outside the village, Ottery St. Catchpole.”

Lower and lower went the flying car. The edge of a brilliant red sun was now gleaming through the trees.

“Touchdown!” said Fred as, with a slight bump, they hit the ground. They had landed next to a tumbledown garage in a small yard, and Harry looked out for the first time at Ron’s house.

It looked as though it had once been a large stone pigpen, but extra rooms had been added here and there until it was several stories high and so crooked it looked as though it were held up by magic (which Harry reminded himself, it probably was). Four or five chimneys were perched on top of the red roof. A lopsided sign stuck in the ground near the entrance read, _THE BURROW_. Around the front door lay a jumble of rubber boots and a very rusty cauldron. Several fat brown chickens were pecking their way around the yard.

“It’s not much,” said Ron, getting out after Harry. Hedwig landed on Harry in seconds, and he stroked her wings.

“It’s wonderful,” said Harry happily, thinking of Privet Drive. Once everyone was out of the car, Andromeda locked it.

“Come on, Harry, I sleep at the—at the top—” Ron had gone a nasty greenish color, his eyes fixed on the house. The other three wheeled around. Mrs. Weasley was marching across the yard, scattering chickens, and for a short, plump, kind faced woman, it was remarkable how much she looked like a sabre-toothed tiger.

“Ah, “said Fred.

“Oh, dear,” said George.

Mrs. Weasley came to a halt in front of them, her hands on her hips, staring from one guilty face to the next. She was wearing a flowered apron with a wand sticking out of the pocket. Andromeda put her hand on Harry’s shoulder, obviously sensing the storm coming.

“So,” she said.

“Morning, Mum,” said George, in what he clearly thought was a jaunty, winning voice.

“Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?” said Mrs. Weasley in a deadly whisper.

“Sorry, Mum, but see, we had to—”

All three of Mrs. Weasley’s sons were taller than she was, but they cowered as her rage broke over them.

“Beds empty! No note! Car gone—could have crashed—out of my mind with worry—did you care?—never, as long as I’ve lived—you wait until your father gets home, we never had trouble like this from Bill or Charlie or Percy —”

“Perfect Percy,” muttered Fred.

“YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF PERCY’S BOOK!” yelled Mrs. Weasley, prodding a finger in Fred’s chest. “You could have died, you could have been seen, you could have been arrested you could have lost your father his job—”

It seemed to go on for hours. Mrs. Weasley had shouted herself hoarse before she turned on Harry and Andromeda, who had backed up so much his godmother had taken a good step back. She was now ruffling his hair, as if distracting her from the screaming by trying to tame Harry’s hair.

“I’m very pleased to see you, Harry, dear,” she said. “And a good morning to you, Auror Tonks. I do hope my sons aren’t being put under—arrest?” She asked worriedly.

Andromeda had a gentle smile on her face, “I’m not wearing my badge for another two hours, so I’d say I never knew of any of this, as long as there’s a promise to never do it again,” She stared pointedly at the twins, who promised to never drive the car again. Harry saw a flicker of suspicion in her eyes but it wasn’t too strong to say much else. “Then there will be no legal punishment, any other form of punishment left to you.”

Harry realized they must have known each other better than he’d suspected, and remembered that her daughter, who she never gave him her name, is one of Charlie, Ron’s second older brother, friends who’d helped them with a dragon problem (Hagrid had a temporary pet dragon their first year). “Oh, thank you. Please, both of you, do come in and have some breakfast. How’s Nymphadora?” She started walking.

“Who?” Harry mouthed to Andromeda, who mouth back, ‘My daughter.’ Oooooh, so that was her name.

They followed Mrs. Weasley, listening to the mothers speak of their children, until they got to the house.  

The kitchen was small and rather cramped. There was a scrubbed wooden table and chairs in the middle, and Harry sat down on the edge of his seat, looking around. He had never been in a wizard house before.  The clock on the wall opposite him had only one hand and no numbers at all. Written around the edge were things like _Time to make tea_ , _Time to feed the chickens, and You’re late_. Books were stacked three deep on the mantelpiece, books with titles like _Charm Your Own Cheese, Enchantment in Baking, and One Minute Feasts — It’s Magic!_ And unless Harry’s ears were deceiving him, the old radio next to the sink had just announced that coming up was “Witching Hour, with the popular singing sorceress, Celestina Warbeck.”

Mrs. Weasley was clattering around, cooking breakfast a little haphazardly, throwing dirty looks at her sons as she threw sausages into the frying pan. Every now and then she muttered things like “don’t know what you were thinking of,” and “never would have believed it.” Andromeda fell into a strange harmony with Mrs. Weasley, as if they’d done this before. She made the eggs and waved her wand to set the table. They chatted happily and Harry, Ron and Fred and George sat in silence, staring at each other.

“I don’t blame you, dear,” she assured Harry, tipping eight or nine sausages onto his plate. “Arthur and I have been worried about you, too. Just last night we were saying we’d come and get you ourselves if you didn’t write by today, but alas. But really,” (she was now adding three fried eggs to his plate) “flying an illegal car halfway across the country—anyone could have seen you—grateful Andromeda had been there—and is a kind woman—honestly—”

She flicked her wand casually at the dishes in the sink, which began to clean themselves, clinking gently in the background.

“It was cloudy, Mum!” said Fred.

“You keep your mouth closed while you’re eating!” Mrs. Weasley snapped.

“They were starving him, Mum!” said George. Andromeda’s hand tightened over the knife that she had used to cut Harry’s bread and buttering it for him.

“And you!” said Mrs. Weasley, but it was a softened expression that she glanced at Andromeda and Harry.

“Unfortunately, I have to be in the office in nearly an hour. Molly, you wouldn’t—”

“As long as you’re gone, Harry can stay. I’d be delighted,” She smiled kindly at Harry. “I’m sure he’s very tired after last night,” A sharp glance at her sons, “He can sleep in Ron’s room—”

At that moment there was a diversion in the form of a small, redheaded figure in a long nightdress, who appeared in the kitchen, gave a small squeal, and ran out again.

“Ginny,” said Ron in an undertone to Harry. “My sister. She’s been talking about you all summer.”

“Yeah, she’ll be wanting your autograph, Harry,” Fred said with a grin, but he caught his mother’s eye and bent his face over his plate without another word.

“I’ll be taking my leave,” She smiled at the whole gang, taking a turnabout the room to drop by Harry to kiss his forehead, “Brace yourself for Dora’s touch to your bedroom. We’ll go get you clothes later, I sincerely do not like the clothes your, erm, uncle and aunt have dressed you in,” She whispered.

“You don’t have—”

“Trust me, Harry,” She looked him in the eye, “I do.” She ruffled his hair, and bid the Weasleys a goodbye.

“Your godmum seems cool,” Fred said to Harry and Harry nodded in agreement, though he was wondering idly if Dora—Dora!—kept her promise on his room being covered in posters.

Nothing more was said until all four plates were clean, which took a surprisingly short time.

“ _Blimey_ , I’m tired,” yawned Fred, setting down his knife and fork at last. “I think I’ll go to bed and —”

“You will not,” snapped Mrs. Weasley. “It’s your own fault you’ve been up all night. You’re going to de-gnome the garden for me; they’re getting completely out of hand again —”

“Oh, Mum —”

“And you two,” she said, glaring at Ron and Fred. “You can go up to bed, dear,” she added to Harry.

But Harry, who felt wide awake, said quickly, “I’ll help Ron. I’ve never seen a de-gnoming —”

“That’s very sweet of you, dear, but it’s dull work,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Now, let’s see what Lockhart’s got to say on the subject —”

And she pulled a heavy book from the stack on the mantelpiece. George groaned.

“Mum, we know how to de-gnome a garden —”

Harry looked at the cover of Mrs. Weasley’s book. Written across it in fancy gold letters were the words Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Household Pests. There was a big photograph on the front of a very good-looking wizard with wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes. As always in the wizarding world, the photograph was moving; the wizard, who Harry supposed was Gilderoy Lockhart, kept winking cheekily up at them all. Mrs. Weasley beamed down at him.

“Oh, he is marvelous,” she said. “He knows his household pests, all right, it’s a wonderful book…”

“Mum fancies him,” said Fred, in a very audible whisper.

“Don’t be so ridiculous, Fred,” said Mrs. Weasley, her cheeks rather pink. “All right, if you think you know better than Lockhart, you can go and get on with it, and woe betide you if there’s a single gnome in that garden when I come out to inspect it.”

Yawning and grumbling, the Weasleys slouched outside with Harry behind them. The garden was large, and in Harry’s eyes, exactly what a garden should be. The Dursleys wouldn’t have liked it — there were plenty of weeds, and the grass needed cutting — but there were gnarled trees all around the walls, plants Harry had never seen spilling from every flower bed, and a big green pond full of frogs.

“Muggles have garden gnomes, too, you know,” Harry told Ron they crossed the lawn.

“Yeah, I’ve seen those things they think are gnomes,” said Ron, bent double with his head in a peony bush, “like fat little Santa Clauses with fishing rods…”

There was a violent scuffling noise, the peony bush shuddered, and Ron straightened up. “This is a gnome,” he said grimly.

“Gerroff me! Gerroff me!” squealed the gnome. It was certainly nothing like Santa Claus. It was small and leathery looking, with a large, knobby, bald head exactly like a potato. Ron held it at arm’s length as it kicked out at him with its horny little feet; he grasped it around the ankles and turned it upside down.

“This is what you have to do,” he said. He raised the gnome above his head (“Gerroff me!”) and started to swing it in great circles like a lasso. Seeing the shocked look on Harry’s face, Ron added, “It doesn’t hurt them —you’ve just got to make them really dizzy so they can’t find their way back to the gnome holes.”

He let go of the gnome’s ankles: It flew twenty feet into the air and landed with a thud in the field over the hedge.

“Pitiful,” said Fred. “I bet I can get mine beyond that stump.”

Harry learned quickly not to feel too sorry for the gnomes. He decided just to drop the first one he caught over the hedge, but the gnome, sensing weakness, sank its razor-sharp teeth into Harry’s finger and he had a hard job shaking it off — until —

“Wow, Harry — that must’ve been fifty feet…”

The air was soon thick with flying gnomes.

“See, they’re not too bright,” said George, seizing five or six gnomes at once. “The moment they know the de-gnoming’s going on they storm up to have a look. You’d think they’d have learned by now just to stay put.”

 Soon, the crowd of gnomes in the field started walking away in a straggling line, their little shoulders hunched.

“They’ll be back,” said Ron as they watched the gnomes disappear into the hedge on the other side of the field. “They love it here… Dad’s too soft with them; he thinks they’re funny…”

 Just then, the front door slammed.

 “He’s back!” said George. “Dad’s home!”

They hurried through the garden and back into the house.

Mr. Weasley was slumped in a kitchen chair with his glasses off and his eyes closed. He was a thin man, going bald, but the little hair he had was as red as any of his children’s. He was wearing long green robes, which were dusty and travel-worn.

“What a night,” he mumbled, groping for the teapot as they all sat down around him. “Nine raids. Nine! And old Mundungus Fletcher tried to put a hex on me when I had my back turned…”

Mr. Weasley took a long gulp of tea and sighed.

“Find anything, Dad?” said Fred eagerly.

“All I got were a few shrinking door keys and a biting kettle,” yawned Mr. Weasley. “There was some pretty nasty stuff that wasn’t my department, though. Mortlake was taken away for questioning about some extremely odd ferrets, but that’s the Committee on Experimental Charms, thank goodness…”

“Why would anyone bother making door keys shrink?” said George.

“Just Muggle-baiting,” sighed Mr. Weasley. “Sell them a key that keeps shrinking to nothing so they can never find it when they need it…Of course, it’s very hard to convict anyone because no Muggle would admit their key keeps shrinking—they’ll insist they just keep losing it. Bless them, they’ll go to any lengths to ignore magic, even if it’s staring them in the face… But the things our lot have taken to enchanting, you wouldn’t believe—”

 “LIKE CARS, FOR INSTANCE?”

Mrs. Weasley had appeared, holding a long poker like a sword. Mr. Weasley’s eyes jerked open. He stared guiltily at his wife.

“C-cars, Molly, dear?”

“Yes, Arthur, cars,” said Mrs. Weasley, her eyes flashing. “Imagine a wizard buying a rusty old car and telling his wife all he wanted to do with it was take it apart to see how it worked, while really he was enchanting it to make it fly.”

Mr. Weasley blinked.

“Well, dear, I think you’ll find that he would be quite within the law to do that, even if — er — he maybe would have done better to, um, tell his wife the truth… There’s a loophole in the law, you’ll find… As long as he wasn’t intending to fly the car, the fact that the car could fly wouldn’t —”

 “Arthur Weasley, you made sure there was a loophole when you wrote that law!” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “Just so you could carry on tinkering with all that Muggle rubbish in your shed! And for your information, Harry arrived this morning in the car you weren’t intending to fly!”

“Harry?” said Mr. Weasley blankly. “Harry who?”

He looked around, saw Harry, and jumped.

“Good lord, is it Harry Potter? Very pleased to meet you, Ron’s told us so much about —”

“Your sons flew that car to Harry’s house and back last night!” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “What have you got to say about that, eh?”

“Did you really?” said Mr. Weasley eagerly. “Did it go all right? I — I mean,” he faltered as sparks flew from Mrs. Weasley’s eyes, “that — that was very wrong, boys — very wrong indeed…”

 “Let’s leave them to it,” Ron muttered to Harry as Mrs. Weasley swelled like a bullfrog. “Come on, I’ll show you my bedroom.”

They slipped out of the kitchen and down a narrow passageway to an uneven staircase, which wound its way, zigzagging up through the house. On the third landing, a door stood ajar. Harry just caught sight of a pair of bright brown eyes staring at him before it closed with a snap.

“Ginny,” said Ron. “You don’t know how weird it is for her to be this shy. She never shuts up normally—”

 They climbed two more flights until they reached a door with peeling paint and a small plaque on it, saying _RONALD’S ROOM._

Harry stepped in, his head almost touching the sloping ceiling, and blinked. It was like walking into a furnace: Nearly everything in Ron’s room seemed to be a violent shade of orange: the bedspread, the walls, even the ceiling. Then Harry realized that Ron had covered nearly every inch of the shabby wallpaper with posters of the same seven witches and wizards, all wearing bright orange robes, carrying broomsticks, and waving energetically.

“Your Quidditch team?” said Harry.

“The Chudley Cannons,” said Ron, pointing at the orange bedspread, which was emblazoned with two giant black C’s and a speeding cannonball. “Ninth in the league.”

 Ron’s school spellbooks were stacked untidily in a corner, next to a pile of comics that all seemed to feature The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle. Ron’s magic wand was lying on top of a fish tank full of frog spawn on the windowsill, next to his fat gray rat, Scabbers, who was snoozing in a patch of sun.

Harry stepped over a pack of Self-Shuffling playing cards on the floor and looked out of the tiny window. In the field far below he could see a gang of gnomes sneaking one by one back through the Weasleys’ hedge. Then he turned to look at Ron, who was watching him almost nervously, as though waiting for his opinion.

“It’s a bit small,” said Ron quickly. “Not like that room you had with the Muggles. And I’m right underneath the ghoul in the attic; he’s always banging on the pipes and groaning…”

But Harry, grinning widely, said, “This is the best house I’ve ever been in.”

Ron’s ears went pink.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again!
> 
> As you can see, most of Harry's parts will be close to canon, though I will be writing in a lot of his parts because of the drastic change. With Rose comes Andromeda and I really wanted a different role for Andromeda and given that I made her Lily Evans' best friend, I thought it only fitting that she be Harry's godmother. I also really wanted to give Harry a break.   
> Anyway, I will try my very best not to stray too far out of canon because, again, this is a fan fiction with just a twist to the sub-plots and a few new, original plots. Eventually, I'll figure it out.   
> Don't be a silent reader! Tell me what ya'll think! I adore reading criticism to try and be better!


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